


Cracker Dust

by bloodydamnit



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic, Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gang World, Angst, Banana Fish Manga Spoilers, Consensual Sex, Edgar Allen Ravens, Evermore - Freeform, Exy (All For The Game), Foxes, Gang Violence, Gun Violence, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lots of fucking angst, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Organized Crime, Past Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Serial Killers, Yakuza, a shit ton of angst, banana fish au, encounters with abuser, in the form of the butcher, mafia, not for faint of heart, palmetto, roland x andrew, the foxhole court - Freeform, violence in general, will change things around
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-05 22:04:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16819366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodydamnit/pseuds/bloodydamnit
Summary: AFTG Banana Fish AU -My knuckles have turned too white, there's no turning back tonight, kiss me one last time- It's Dangerous Business Walking Out Your Front Door, Underoath





	Cracker Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! So, here is Cracker Dust, my Banana Fish AU because I am OBSESSED with Banana Fish and could not get Andrew and Neil taking the places of Ash and Eiji out of my fucking head.  
> Banana Fish is a drug, Cracker Dust is an AFTG drug. IT WORKS OKAY.  
> FIRST OFF. SHOUT OUT TO MY AMAZING. /AMAZING/ BETA. THAT HAS LITERALLY STUCK IT OUT WITH ME THROUGH THICK AND THIN - HAS DEALT WITH MY MIDNIGHT RANTS, SUDDEN CHANGE OF IDEAS, AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN, [FUCKYEAHDISREPUTABLEKIBETH](https://fuckyeahdisreputablekibeth.tumblr.com/). YOU ARE LITERALLY A BLOODY ANGEL. I would NOT be doing this without you. I would be stuck and lost and your input, ideas, and help literally mean so much to me.  
> Now, just something to say off the bat. This WILL have Banana Fish spoilers in it. Things will inevitably change, but major events will likely occur. Each chapter will roughly follow one episode (with exceptions. ie, chapter 1)  
> You do not have to read/watch Banana Fish in order to read this! I will make sure that this story can stand on its own. Banana Fish will help understanding some other characters, but it is not a requirement for this story! Again, it should stand on it's own and there will be many things changed. So, no worries there! (Though I highly recommend Banana Fish. oh. my. WORD).  
> A lot of warnings go into this fic though. If you are NOT familiar with the original story, then please PLEASE read tags very carefully.  
> Here, we will deal a LOT with Andrew's past abusers. Drake Spear is a major main character in this story, as well as past foster parents. I've had to take Andrew's story and make it as realistic in the Banana Fish setting as I possibly could. I do not feel like I have unnecessarily put him through trauma and everything I do will be pertinent to the story and will not, in ANY WAY, BE GLORIFIED TO THE READER. Please understand that Andrew's future has changed, therefore his past has as well. Again, I will not glorify, or put Andrew through unnecessary trauma, and if you feel that I have, please feel free to express your concerns.  
> Also understand that this story very much revolves around him overcoming his abuse and growing stronger and stronger.  
> This will be a very dark fic. But it will eventually be resolved. Banana Fish ruined me and I am DETERMINED TO FLUFF THE FUCK OUT OF THIS (of course within limits. again, this shit is dark. but there will be moments of reprieve, I promise). 
> 
> I have also tried to keep Andrew as in character as possible. You will see this come out more, most definitely, as the story goes on. He is still very much affected. 
> 
> So, CW's for this chapter:  
> Implied Past Sexual Abuse.  
> Murder  
> Violence  
> Brief Blood  
> Encounter with past abuser (Drake, another character)  
> Panic attacks
> 
> If I have missed anything, PLEASE LET ME KNOW!  
> I hope you all enjoy!! I am literally having the time of my god damned life with writing this.
> 
> ••• = flashback
> 
> long cut ______ = pov change
> 
> Some dialogue and lines are taken directly from the anime (Perhaps also the manga)! I cannot take credit for them! I have altered a lot though to fit the story. So if something sounds familiar, it likely is!
> 
> Chapter titles coincide (for now, I might change my mind... idk) with Banana Fish Episode names!
> 
> Lastly (omfg tiara shut up) ages for the original foxes have been played with. Just keep that in mind! Matt and Dan are somewhere in their late 20's and Renee is only 21

•••

_I can’t move. I can’t think._

**_Cracker Dust._ **

_I am a prisoner._

**_Cracker Dust._ **

_My body is shaking. I can’t stop it._

**_Cracker Dust._ **

_Everything hurts... my bones ache._

**_Cracker Dust._ **

_Nicky is crying. I can hear, I can see, but I can’t speak._

**_Cracker Dust._ **

_I don’t want him to cry._

**_Cracker Dust._ **

_There’s someone in the doorway._

**_Cracker Dust._ **

_It’s me... I’m walking towards myself._

**_Cracker Dust._ **

_I’m kneeling. I’m angry - I think._

**_Cracker Dust._ **

_I’m yelling - at myself. At Nicky._

**_Cracker Dust._ **

_I look different than I remember. My hair is longer, my eyes colder._

**_Cracker Dust._ **

_I wish I could tell myself everything was going to be okay._

**_Cracker Dust._ **

_Please tell me everything will be okay._

**_Cracker Dust._ **

•••

* * *

_The city that never sleeps._

That’s what they call it.

Andrew found that funny. Most businesses in New York City closed at 10PM. The brochures fail to recognize that.

Times Square even shuts down fairly early. Though the lights still shine, commercial businesses close no later than 11.

But that’s not what it means, not really. Though employee’s may retire, the city is rife with leftover energy from the day. As vanilla life sleeps, the night comes alive in Hell’s kitchen, Chelsea, Soho, Williamsburg, Chinatown... One of the main reasons why Andrew avoided them when he could. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be seen, it was that he didn’t want all the _noise, noise, noise._ The downside to living in the city - to basing HQ at a goddamned club in the LES*. Andrew was never properly left alone to his thoughts. One thing that he missed about the mess of his childhood; sitting in a cupboard or running down a street, the only sound being the thrum of his own heartbeat in his ears or the ragged rasp of breaths in his lungs.

In a couple of hours, the city would be as quiet as it could possibly get. If _golden hour_ was sunrise, then _silver hour_ was 3AM. A perfect sweet spot where clubs were an hour from closing and businessmen/women weren’t up for their day. Andrew relished in the _silver hour_ , counted down the minutes until his head could fill with distant sirens, stray car alarms, and garbage trucks; sounds of city life melting into a comforting hum.

A few hours away and his fingers twitched with the need. Soon, he would be able to _think_.

-

His body ached. There was a crick in his neck that he couldn’t quite get and a tension pulling at his left thigh. Renee Lee had run him ragged.

On Wednesday nights, the two of them trained together. _Happy Hump Day_ , she always teased before fists were raised and mercy rare. They started their sessions with punches, kicks, and (respectful) grappling. Halfway through, they’d arm themselves with their switchblades and mercy became far less.

Andrew bore several cuts from that night. One to his bicep, another to his outer left thigh, and a thin slice at his cheek. Renee made out far better than he, but he was never that good with a blade anyway. Andrew much preferred other weapons. Maybe it was because knives were too personal. It wasn’t like he thought Renee enjoyed the act of killing or hurting others - no, it was very much the opposite. But watching the light leave someone’s eyes in such close proximity was too much for Andrew. His blood may run cold, but his heart beat warm.

Maybe that made him weak, arming himself with a gun - preferring it even. He was too weak to slit a man’s throat, but he could shoot someone from 25 ft away. Impersonality made it so Andrew could’t see the life flash before their eyes - before his.

That’s why he trained; it’s why he worked himself to the bone with Renee. Having a weakness was a death sentence in these streets - against these people. Andrew may have won his battle, but a war was brewing and he could feel it in the electric New York City air. Something wasn’t _right_. Well, nothing for Andrew had ever _been_ right. But this something was far bigger than _before_ and it was changing the landscape he had become so familiar with in the past three years.

The streets were wet. Stars could not be seen, but the moon was a glowing orb somewhere in the light polluted sky - hazy and tiredly watching Andrew from above. It was midnight. Andrew dug his fingers into the tough muscle behind his neck in effort to loosen a knot and he relished in the dull throb of pain that radiated from his leg. He fought past the light limp. Again, weakness was a death sentence and those who did not know who he was, may see him as an easy target. Though as fun as violence may be some days, he wasn’t looking for more, not tonight.

Drain water squelched beneath his boots and he took the back allies from Chinatown towards Eden’s Twilight. He had no other plans for that night but to get in a couple hours of sleep before the _silver hour_ was upon him. Then, he had an appointment with himself and the city silence to think over the trouble happening in his northern territory.

Andrew had only been running these streets for two and a half years. The six months prior to that, he was too busy making a name for himself. Yes, knives were deadly personal, but his fists and a magnum did a good job of letting people know who they were dealing with. Anyone that _saw_ or _thought_ him as weak or an easy target, were taught the hard way. After several brawls, a handful of bodies, well placed rumors, and what he had done _prior_ to the streets, people started to fall behind _Andrew Doe,_ for reasons that he himself did not always understand.

What he had accomplished downtown was unprecedented. Over the span of two years, he had amassed a following that rivaled many of the long standing syndicates throughout the city. Andrew was organized, cold, and took care of his own - his own which did not span race or religion. No. What he had helped create had no name. Rather than one unit, they were a union of gangs united under a hatred towards a much more powerful force and what some may say, more importantly, a respect for Andrew's experience. When one gang had an issue with another, they came to him first. He was a messenger, a mediator, a whip to lash those who were wrong into shape.

Downtown was his stomping grounds (Lower Manhattan - encompassing East Village, Lower East Side, Two Bridges, even Tribeca) but his territory stretched farther. Andrew ran a good section of Brooklyn and even some parts of Queens. Many large, organized gangs were still deeply embedded in areas, but he had no desire to step on their toes or take what they had away. He was a uniter, not a gentrifier and despite their separation, he had a good relationship with many - another thing that confused the hell out of his enemies.

Which were far and wide. North of Midtown, Andrew’s footing was less stable. It wasn’t that he had severely bad relationships, it was just that he avoided the Upper East and West sides as much as he possibly could. That meant any connections he could create in Harlem, Washington Heights, or the Bronx were minimal - which was fine, for the time being. But ‘Uptown’ was almost like a wall that Andrew could not, would not penetrate. It’s where his demons lie, basked, rolled around and got dirty.

No. The Upper East/West side could burn down for all he fucking cared.

Unfortunately, the powers that be never really played in Andrew’s favor. Tonight, with his body spent and mind as fogged as the moon, of course _he_ would find a way to fuck it all up.

Eden’s Twilight rest on the outskirts of the LES and hugged the borders of both Chinatown and Two Bridges. As a headquarters for Andrew’s main branch (‘fondly’ dubbed as, _The Monsters_ ), it was in the perfect location.

Chinatown was one of the long standing, deeply embedded, organizations that Andrew didn’t mess with. Together, he and the Chinese Syndicate, operated out of a mutual need to get along. He scratched their back, they scratched his. But, it wasn’t always that way.

Originally, their relationship was tumultuous at best. Andrew had gotten himself into a lot of trouble in the early days of his ‘come up’ on their streets, purely because he had no idea what he was doing. There were several times he was dragged in to meet _The Boss_ , Shang-Lung Lee* and because of who raised Andrew, Mr. Lee had let him survive.

To many, that may seem like mercy - to Andrew, it was humiliation.

After those meetings, a teenage girl, perhaps only a year or two older than he, would lead Andrew and gently deposit him on the outskirts of Chinatown. She was quiet and calm - but in a way that made him feel more unsettled than anything. He immediately liked her.

One night, while sporting a swelling black eye and busted lip, the girl lead Andrew to a corner where Rutgers met Henry St. In the distance, the Manhattan Bridge buzzed with beeping horns and tired engines, and low music hummed from one of the boarded buildings. A purple lit doorway was a beacon down the street and the girl pointed towards it. She told him:

_That’s Eden’s Twilight. Ask for Roland. He’ll help you._

After that, she smiled and turned to leave. Andrew didn’t know why, but that night, he didn’t want her to go, not yet - first, he wanted to know who the hell she was.

_Renee Lee._

It turned out, Renee was Shang-Lung’s daughter. _The Boss_ entrusted her to see the troublesome white boy out of Chinatown and drop him fuck knows where, time and time again. Who would’ve thought she, the daughter of one of the most infamously dangerous Boss’s in the city, would become his sparring partner, his support, his best... friend (if Andrew had any). She became, at the time, the flint Andrew needed to light his fire.

That night, he did go into Eden’s, he did ask for _Roland,_ and from then on the rest was - as they say - history.

Renee no longer needed to drop him at his doorstep. Two some-odd years later, and their _friendship_ had bartered a peace between _The Monsters_ and the Chinese Syndicate. They were by no means close to the main branch, but there was at least an understanding that when help was needed, either side would be there. Renee’s group was another story. The two of them ran together, keeping both sides in check and gathering whenever they could.

Like tonight.

He was about to come on to Essex, which would mark the separation between Chinatown and the LES. The main roads were still active, people coming in late from work or retiring after a night at the bar. Rather than cross the busy intersection, Andrew turned down one of the alleys between buildings on Canal towards East Broadway - taking a familiar alternative route. _Noise_ vibrated the buildings and the allies provided at least a bit of reprieve. 

With his hood up, Andrew fished through his sweater pockets for his pack of cigarettes and lighter. Somewhere, in the distance, over and under the activity of city life, there was a patter of wet, running steps - but that wasn’t uncommon at this time of night. It could either be his people fucking around, a civilian running from whatever horrors these back allies brought, or something Andrew didn’t want to fucking deal with. Turns out, it was the latter.

Just as Andrew shook a cigarette from it’s pack and brought it to his lips, someone bound into the alley behind him. Biting down into the filter, the magnum pressed against his lower back burned and the knife in his pocket switched out of its handle. He didn’t yet turn, listening to the ragged, desperate breaths and the fast foot falls. Andrew angled his body towards the wall, just in case he needed to brace himself before he heard a ‘ _help_ ’ wheeze from whomever’s lips.

Turning quickly, the cigaret dropped from Andrew’s mouth as he folded the blade and saw a man in a suit head straight towards him. Three steps short, he stumbled, collapsing face first into the grime. Andrew crouched before he could even think. Curse his conscious.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low and demanding as he pushed back his black hood and hovered his hand over the man’s shaking shoulder. Dragging his eyes over him, there was a clear stab wound at the man’s back, a growing dark spot of blood between his shoulder blades.

 _Guess not_.

The man lifted his face from the ground. Dirt stuck to his cheeks and with shaking lips, he struggled to get words out. “T-Take this-” he choked. It took whatever life the man had left to lift his hand. In his outstretched palm was a crumpled receipt.

Andrew was two seconds away from telling the guy that he didn’t want his pocket trash. Nonetheless, he plucked it from his hand. The receipt was worn and old - ripped and stained. The lettering was fading away; numbers and fine print barely legible, but the name of the business was big and bold:

**_Sweeties_**

“Where did you get this?” Something was igniting uncomfortably in his gut. Andrew closed his fist around the receipt and felt something hard press into his palm.

With whatever remaining breath the guy had left, he wheezed out an address, “146 St Pauls, B-baltimore-”

Andrew grit his teeth and grabbed the man’s coat as his eyes started to fade. “No! How do you know about Swe-”

“This way!”

Pounding steps echoed down the alley.

Andrew shot up his head and glared at the two figures bounding towards them. His upper lip curled slightly when he realized who they were - listened to them stop short as he looked down at the man that went slack in his hand. With a growl, Andrew let go and stood up. His other fist tightened.

“Boss!”

Andrew hated when they called him that. The object pressed harder into his skin.

Alex and Ryan, his men, were breathing heavily - Ryan, literally, red handed with a knife bleeding from his fingers.

Andrew pointed at the deadman. “Explain,” he demanded.

Alex looked to Ryan with big eyes. Ryan looked back, mouth hanging open so wide Andrew was tempted to toss the receipt in, but rage danced at the ends of his nerves. 

“What?” Alex gasped dumbly, Ryan glanced at him and shook his head.

Andrew narrowed his eyes and ground his teeth together. His patience was being tried; there was a man he had never seen before, dead at his feet, in his territory, by _his men_. Reaching behind himself, he wrapped his fingers around the handle of his gun and took a step over the deadman’s arm.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” He started to pull the gun out.

“Wait!” Ryan gasped, hands placating forward. “Don’t shoot-”

Alex gave away, “-It was Drake! Drake told us to!”

A shiver of anger or fear raced up Andrew’s spine. He shoved the barrel of the gun back into its place. “ _Drake?”_

“Yes! He told us-” Alex looked between himself and Ryan, “T-to...”

Before Andrew could ask why, a police siren sang so close behind that red and blue lights flashed down the alley, bouncing off the puddles and wet gutters. Like a natural instinct, something engrained in all of them, Andrew shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the lights while Alex and Ryan looked behind themselves. All three wanted to run.

“Get rid of that.” Andrew hissed, nodding his chin at the bloody knife. “And get the fuck out of here. I’ll talk to Drake.”

They didn’t need to be told twice. Brief, foolish relief flashed over their faces as they turned and ran down an adjacent alley - as if what Andrew showed them was mercy, released them from punishment.

There was no time. Andrew turned the opposite way and ran.

-

 **_Sweeties_**.

Andrew knew what **_Sweeties_** was; he had heard the name from his cousin, Nicky.

 **_Sweeties_ ** was a diner in Columbia, South Carolina. It was where Nicky said _the incident_ happened. That name joined the list of shit that haunted him for the past three years.

Why the deadman had been there, he didn’t know.

Why it was important? Andrew could guess, but that didn’t answer all questions.

_146 St. Pauls, Baltimore._

Baltimore. Andrew knew nothing about Baltimore, knew no one. Any significance fell flat, so why had the man used his dying breath to relay it? What importance did it have in relation to **_Sweeties_**?

How had the man known to trust Andrew with this information? Was he running _to_ Andrew? Had he been on his way? Or was it a dying man's desperate last words? Was this a trap? And why was _Drake_ involved?

_Drake._

-

Home was so close, sleep only a few blocks away.

Nothing ever worked in Andrew’s favor.

He felt slow - like the world was taking it’s time. The F* crawled across its tracks, ticking along like Andrew’s patience. In the window, he stared at his own reflection until he got sick of it. Same ugly eyes ( _This is my baby brother, AJ. Aren’t his eyes something? Like gold. You should see them shimmer_ ), same pallor complexion ( _You’re like cream. Smooth and rich_ ), same dull hair ( _Silk.That’s what it is. Perfect to stroke, perfect to hold. Just like that-_ ), all thankfully interrupted by his black hood and bandage on his cheek. He’ll have to remember to thank Renee.

The second train was marginally shorter, but the closer to the Upper East he got, the more he felt like he was sinking in quicksand.

Tonight was the gala for the beginning of the Collegiate Exy season. It was also the 30th Anniversary of the creation of exy, as well as a _thank you_ for the _generous_ donation made by the _Spear_ family to Columbia University’s Exy team. Apparently, the Spears (Drake) donated a brand new, state of the art exy stadium to the college. Why they weren’t holding the Gala there, like every other fucking school - Andrew would like to say he didn’t fucking know. But of course, _of course_ , they had to rent out the Great fucking Hall of The Metropolitan fucking Museum of Art. Like this was the god damned Met Gala or something and Drake Spear was Rihanna.

The Met or Columbia, either way, Andrew was fucked. One rest in the Upper East, the other the Upper West, and Andrew hated both sides. At least the university was far enough _away_ . The Met was placed in the most inconvenient location possible. _Luckily_ , the M1* ran late into the night and dropped off only a block away - unluckily, it took Andrew a total of 40 minutes to finally emerge at 83 and Madison.

It was a scenic route. Andrew’s phone read that it was just past one in the morning, which meant these rich upper streets were nearly desolate. A few young trees bent overhead in the humid September air and Andrew had an impulse to kick one to see if it would snap.

The Met was nestled on the eastern outer edge of Central Park. Normally beautiful, reeking of horse manure, and dappled in twinkling sunlight, the park looked ominous underneath the hidden stars. Dark, Andrew knew what horrors lay beyond the wrought iron fence and tall oaks.

•••

The wind moaned and trees creaked. Scratching branches and sharp thorns snagged at his clothes, his face. There was shouting behind him, somewhere in the distance. Pools of wavering light splashed beside Andrew as he _ran, ran, ran._

A helicopter was overhead. It’s propellers chopped the night into pieces, stirred his nerves into a sickening bundle in his throat.

Andrew was choking. His throat felt raw, his lungs burned. Bare, bloody, and torn, his feet could only go so fast. Once upon a time, he thought if he ran fast enough, he could fly away.

He wasn’t flying, he was dragging, sinking, falling into the trap that had been set against him.

At night Central Park looked nothing like it did during the day... Paths once bathed in light, were cast by inky shadows. Monsters curved above and around.

Police and men dressed in black were after him. _AJ_ was called through the trees.

He didn’t know where he was going. A million places to hide - none safe, none secure. He would find him. He always did.

 _He did._

•••

Andrew felt just as trapped as he had that night. From across the street, he stared at the park until his eyes went dry. **_Sweeties_ ** locked itself in a draw at the back of his mind - stored away for later as fear sank itself deep in Andrew’s bones.

No cars passed, nothing solid to interrupt the paralysis, but for the vibration his pocket.

Drowning, Andrew was so close to hitting the bottom of the pit that had been dug for him so many years ago. Whomever was trying to contact him became his lifeline, his tether, and he used the phone at his thigh to pull himself to the surface. A full body flinch wracked through his body. He must been holding his breath because his lungs ached with need as he sucked in the humid air so greedily that he had to stifle a cough into his shoulder. That broke his contact. Self awareness threw him across the street and towards the marble building, sparkling in the city lights.

As he wove himself between a limo and coach bus, Andrew shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. There were two missed calls and one text from _Roland_ : 

> 1:11AM renee said u left over n hour ago. everything ok? where r u?

Andrew typed a quick response as he ascended the smooth steps - faint, muffled pop music leaked from the three main double doors.

> 1:15AM dw. Round everyone up at 6. Meeting beneath bridge. 

He put his phone and _Roland_ away as he came upon the second tier of stairs.

Above the entrance was a large banner advertising the Gala and new ‘History of Exy’ opening. It contrasted the blue lights shining beyond the guarded front doors.

“AJ! Come to join the festivities?”

One of the guards called down the stairs. The voice was deep and guttural; it made Andrew’s skin crawl. Biting into his upper lip to prevent it from curling, he climbed the rest of the stairs and let go to force a smile on his face.

“More than you’re doing. The _Boss_ won’t even let you inside?” Andrew tsked and moved to step past _Steven*_.

To anyone else, Steven would be utterly unremarkable. Round in the middle, dyed brown hair, in his mid 50’s, he gave off a ‘harmless enough’ impression. To Andrew, Steven was one of his many nightmares. He could almost still feel the large meaty hand wrapped around his throat while the other -

“Watch your mouth boy,” Steven seethed. He pushed down the rim of his ridiculous sunglasses and stepped in Andrew’s path.

He still wore the same cologne. It stuck in Andrew’s nose. He instinctively swallowed, but schooled his eyes into a cool glare.

 _I_ **_am not_ ** _scared_.

“I came to see Drake. Not you.” Andrew’s mouth watered with venom. He swallowed again and gripped the switchblade in his pocket hard. He couldn't use it - not here. Though the reward far outweighed the consequences, Renee kept telling him _revenge is useless_. Nonetheless the cool metal comforted him with a facade of safety.

“Oh have you?”

A complete facade. He was entering the lion’s den and Andrew was but a fox.

Steven’s disgusting eyes crawled over Andrew’s body and he could feel them like they were his greedy fucking hands. Andrew ground his teeth together and stepped to the side.

“It’s really none of your business is it?” Andrew asked, meaning for it to be a rhetorical question. He made for the far right door - trying to put as much distance between himself and the old pervert as he could. There was another enforcer standing there, but he looked utterly uninterested as he stood and stared forward. Right as Andrew’s hand reached to push the large door open, that enforcer spoke.

“Do you have any weapons?” His voice was quiet, far different from Steven’s.

It was Andrew’s automatic impulse to lie. Of course he did. A gun at his back and a knife at his side, he had no intentions of walking into this building without them. However, he had to be smart. Andrew came here for a reason. He had a purpose, questions that needed to be answered, something broken that needed mending. 

“Yes.” He almost hissed, but kept his tone level as he looked to the man.

Steven mocked a ‘tsk’. Without turning around, Andrew could feel him lumber up behind him and a hand pressed to his lower back. “Naughty, AJ...”

Andrew stared forward and angled his body away.

_I am not scared. Revenge is useless._

The skin on his neck burned and Andrew dipped his hand to his own back to withdrawn his gun. His mind could fool himself into thinking he couldn’t breath, so he focused on the feel of sticky air in his lungs as he handed his magnum over to the impassive enforcer.

Without a word, he took it and stored it away in his coat. Andrew then handed over his switchblade - the abuse, the stares, the teasing, and overall lack of protection, not worth questions unanswered.

When he seemed to be defenseless, the enforcer nodded and opened the door. Music flooded out of the hall and shades of blue danced on Andrew’s black boots. Before he stepped inside, Andrew took a steady, deep breath, turned around and smiled at Steven. With a flourish of his hand in way of farewell, Andrew winked, “Pervert.”

-

He felt dirty. His face was tired - unused to marking mockery in his features. He could still feel Steven’s hand at his lower back, phantom fingers wrapped around his neck and stale breath on his cheek. Andrew swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat and focused instead on pulling open the drawer at the back of his mind to let **_Sweeties_ ** fill his every thought.

The Great Hall of the Met was a hallmark of elegance and classical design. Everything was made of marble and stone, varying in shades of beige and polished shine. The blue lights perfectly bounced off the large columns and walls, coating the entire area in the colors of Columbia University. There was a central receptionist desk, void of people, but sprouting some sculptural form of palms and greenery. People, dressed in their blacks and whites, milled about in a large crowd that was perfect for disappearing, but horrible for navigating.

Large banners hung from the balconies, reading off names of other Ivy Leagues and Class 1 schools, as well as more advertisements of the new gallery hidden somewhere towards the back of the museum. School mascots, expensively commissioned in plaster, were stationed off to the sides of the venue - Columbia’s Lynx was arched proudly in the center.

Andrew stuck to the periphery of the makeshift ‘meeting’ area and ‘dance floor’. Somewhere, hidden away in one of the alcoves was a DJ deck playing the out of place pop music in this historic hall. Luckily, chatter was loud - people speaking above the music and leaning in close to exchange stupid jokes and pleasant threats between teams.

Somewhere amongst the hundreds of people was Erik Klose, Nicky’s husband. If Andrew stood in one place, he could probably spot the tall, blond head somewhere in the room. He was the reason why Andrew knew this event was tonight in the first place. Erik played exy professionally for the New York Lions. The entire team was here tonight and as a sports journalist, and Erik’s husband, Nicky had been invited. Andrew just happened to overhear Erik bringing it up to Nicky last week and swiftly got involved. There were reasons why he didn’t want Nicky here tonight. Not because he initially had any intentions of being here himself. No - Andrew wanted to get out of this place as fast as possible. But, because there were _people_ here that he did not want anywhere close to his family.

 _People_ , Andrew could not spot. Amongst the heads of college players, coaches, professionals, and high brow investors, there were only a few faces that he could place. Two of them, a duo of idiots Andrew worked with when forced and ignored when not, were talking to a group of Lions. 

With credit due, Dan Wilds-Boyd and Matt Boyd were NYPD detectives for the 7th Precinct and thorns in Andrew’s side, but they weren’t actually stupid. In the same area, the three of them crossed paths constantly. More than once, the two had enlisted Andrew’s advice in finding some rogue killer a year back. Ever since then, they tried to _help_ Andrew _find his way._ They thought him a child, some teenager that fell off the beaten path. Which, was, in a way, valid. Andrew was only 19, stood at 5 foot even, and helped run most of downtown. They weren’t _wrong_ to be worried, but they weren’t _right_ in who they were worrying _about._

Andrew learned very early, the difference between a good and dirty cop. Some were nearly impossible to spot - others the opposite. If Andrew could go about life screaming ‘fuck the police’, he would. They never did anything good for him. The amount of times they had put him in harm’s way was innumerable. Though not targeted for his skin, shot at, strangled, overtly harmed without cause like so many in this city - this country -, he learnt how deeply embedded perverted corruption could be. That night in Central Park had taught him too much. Opened him to a new world of terror - where even the _good_ guys, were bad guys.

Dan and Matt were not those 'cops'. They were in the force because they believed the _good_ in people. They wanted to do _good_ by the citizens of New York and make a positive _change._ They were unbelievably misguided - looked upon Andrew as if he were the one that lost his way. How horribly wrong they were. In many ways, Andrew pitied them. In others, he envied their ignorance.

Making his way along, rather than keeping his head bowed and hood up, he pushed it back and walked like he belonged. Once upon a time, he would have. In another world, with other circumstances, Andrew could have been one of _them_.

 _Cass_ told him that all the time.

What felt like years ago, he had been slated for the Columbia Lynx’s. Mr. Spear had taken him to a few games and Cass had bought him a jersey. How proudly Andrew sported that mascot, felt strong and like he _belonged._ Exy was his release, his passion, and fucking damnit Andrew was _good_ at it. He played alongside some of the best in his formative years. In little league, he _was_ the best. Standing next to Riko Moriyama, Kevin Day, and Nathaniel Wesninski, Andrew _Spear_ shone bright like a god damned diamond*. He was _meant_ to play.

Then, Andrew’s world continued collapsing. Mr. Spear died and a _monster_ took his place.

Hopes and dreams were useless methods of coping with hard realities.

-

Somewhere near the entrance to the Met Store, a hand gripped around Andrew’s arm. His stomach rolled, body convulsed in a sharp twitch and he ripped his arm away.

“Don’t fucking-” he started and turned around to see the aforementioned Kevin _fucking_ Day with his hands held up in surrender. The right was in a cast.

Andrew had heard about it a few days ago. Kevin’s injury was all over the fucking news. Apparently on a trip to the French Alps, Kevin had gotten in an accident while ‘skiing’. His dominant hand was badly broken and would be out for the coming season - maybe even the rest of his career, if shit went south. What a load of bullshit.

“I’m so-” he started, stupid green eyes wide with well placed fear.

“Skiing accident?” Andrew hissed and nodded his chin towards the cast.

Kevin quickly looked over his shoulder, as if looking out for the ‘I’ that partnered the ‘II’ tattooed on his cheek.

Riko Moriyama was an egotistical maniac*, a striker for the Edgar Allen Ravens, and a son of one of the main branches of the Yakuza. A terror from day one, Andrew remembered Riko trying to carve a ‘IV’ into his cheek to follow Wesninski’s ‘III’, when they were 10. Riko called them _The Perfect Court_ ; obsessed with the four of them taking the Exy world by storm. He was halfway right.

He and Kevin had been attached by the hip since they were children. Tetsuji Moriyama, Riko’s uncle and Kayleigh Day, Kevin’s mother, had invented Exy 30 years ago. This event was, in many ways, to pay homage to them.

Kevin and Riko _were_ taking the world by storm. The two had already made Court, played for the US at the Olympics two years ago, and were perfectly matched in every way possible. They moved like a unit, one cohesive body; they always had.

Whatever happened to Nathaniel Wesninski, Andrew didn’t know. A year back, his father, Nathan, The Butcher of Baltimore, was sent to jail on fraudulent charges. That likely ruined Nathaniel’s chances, which meant there was no one else to steal Kevin and Riko’s spotlight.

Except Kevin himself, apparently.

It didn’t take a fucking rocket scientist to figure out that Kevin did not break his god damned hand in a ‘skiing accident’. Anyone that knew Riko, knew the truth. Andrew had been telling Kevin for years to leave.

“I need your help...” Kevin begged, left hand almost twitching to reach out towards Andrew again. Andrew glared at it until Kevin shoved it in his dress pant’s pocket.

He lifted his glare to Kevin’s face. “You need a spine.”

“I know - I know, I’m trying. Which is why I’m talking to you in the first place. Do you think I want to ask _you_?” Kevin leant towards Andrew.

Andrew scoffed. He lost interest quickly and went back to scanning the crowd. “Good plan, Day. Insult me. You have five seconds to pitch me the rest before I walk away.” He flicked his eyes towards Kevin’s face, then back towards the crowd.

There were too many people. Trying to spot Drake’s imposing frame would be easy anywhere else, except for an event filled with college and pro athletes.

“Andrew, _please-_ ” Kevin misspoke, made a mistake. A flicker of desperation that Andrew fought everyday to stifle, ignited within him in an ugly and cold rush of ice through his veins.

He didn’t stick around to hear the rest. Stepping around Kevin, he headed straight in the crowd of people and ignored the whispered curses and pleas as he tried to put as much distance between himself and that word as he could. 

Just as Andrew stepped around a particularly large backliner (The Gorilla, from the Breckenridge Jackals), he felt him before he saw him. A set of eyes was piercing into the back of his head - a familiar presence that played with the ice in his blood. Andrew couldn’t explain it, but he turned quickly and saw _Drake Spear_ watching him from the archway of the central grand staircase.

Cold dark eyes, light brown hair, Drake Spear was an intimidating man, with a charming smile and a crushing grip. His back was pressed against the marble wall, champagne glass balanced elegantly between his large fingers as he spoke presumably, to one of the college players. He wore a deep burgundy suit, tailored to hug his built body in a facade of poise and a clear show of strength.

Andrew didn’t know how long Drake had been staring at him for, but he must have known he was here since Andrew entered the building.

Closing his conversation, Drake flashed a set of white teeth and looked back up at Andrew with a little nod of his head towards the staircase. He was meant to follow, obviously, but Andrew felt like his feet were rooted in their spot.

Drake left and whomever he was talking to looked over his shoulder _right at Andrew_. His hair was dark, eyes almost black, and a scar cut-

He turned away and disappeared in the crowd.

Andrew narrowed his eyes and wrapped his fingers around his left forearm. With a brief press of his thumbnail into his skin, he uprooted his feet and followed Drake with a screaming reminder in his head: **_Sweeties_**.

-

The walk allowed Andrew’s mind to clear and the anger he had felt in the alley to return. He came here with a purpose, a goal, an objective in mind and there had been too many distractions between then and now. He ascended the stairs and shoved his hand in his pocket to wrap his fingers around the heavy receipt. Digging its soft paper edges into his palm, whatever was held in the center pressed hard into his skin and Andrew used it to anchor the anger. He would need it. Up against Drake, Andrew fell too many times to his manipulations. He needed to keep his head on straight.

Get in. Get out.

-

How he knew where he was going was a lesson taught a long time ago. Cass would take him here whenever she visited. The two of them walked the halls and she told him stories of her eldest son, that Andrew, at the time, had not yet met.

_Drake used to love the Sculpture Garden._

So sweet, so stupid, so blind, Cass Spear loved Andrew as if he were just as much her son as Drake.

_We would walk here for hours..._

She’d whisper and rub Andrew’s back as they passed _Perseus with the Head of Medusa_ , by Antonio Canova. He remembered curling in to her close, staring up at the horror in Medusa’s face - head lifted into the air by Perseus’s left hand.

Raped, battered, broken, all Medusa wanted was to be left alone - to never be touched again. So much so, that Athena _gifted_ her with the _curse_ of ugliness, the power to turn those who looked upon her into stone.

At 9 years old, he was terrified of her. Now, he prayed to whatever powers that be, to grant him the same.

They were similar, he and Medusa. Perseus cut off her head - Drake tried to cut off his.

He was still trying.

-

Andrew looked at that sculpture now and tried to draw strength, rather than fear. His Poseidon*, his Perseus stood before him, cold eyes glinting in the after-hours low light and early morning dark outside.

“Hello, AJ.” Steven’s voice made his skin crawl; from fear, Drakes made Andrew want to.

Andrew swallowed it down and flexed his empty hand in his pocket.

Along his trip here, something in Andrew told him to hide the receipt. He tossed it in a corner made by a podium supporting a powder blue couch on display and a gallery wall. It _clinked_ when it hit the ground.

“Enjoying the party?” Drake asked, hand cockily resting over the foot of Perseus.

Andrew glanced at Medusa again, then settled his eyes on Drake.

 _He was not scared_.

_He would not crumble._

“I’m here for business.” Andrew leveled his voice and cracked his pinky. A brief shock of release steadied him.

Drake shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Ah ah ah, I’ve told you, time and time again. Take your hands out of your pockets while speaking to me.” Drake pointedly looked down at Andrew’s hands weighing heavy in his hoodie. 

Andrew knew that rule. Chose to forget it. Nonetheless, he did as told - if only to make this process easier. No use being defiant.

Drake took it a bit further.

“Take it off, unless you want my men doing it for you.” Drake looked behind Andrew, towards the two enforcers that trailed him here. Andrew didn’t know their names, didn’t need to. They were no one.

Andrew again, did as told. Power plays were Drakes forte. Andrew wouldn’t let him have this - after all, in front of Drake, his body had nothing to hide. No. Drake removed that right from him a long time ago.

Taking off his hoodie, he tossed it to the floor. Underneath, he wore a short sleeved black shirt. It was summer and the hoodie covered his weakness enough.

Drake’s smile widened. Andrew let his pale arms hang by his sides. He got down to it.

“Why did you make them do it?” Andrew asked in that way of demanding. Voice low, quiet, deadly to those that supposedly knew better. Drake was not afraid.

“Make who? Your lackeys? What exactly are you asking AJ? Be specific. Make them go behind your back, kill the man..?” He walked towards Andrew steadily, slowly - fine dress shoes echoing in the space.

“Answer the question.” Andrew fought not to hiss, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Drake rolled his eyes and made a sound in the back of his throat. “He was a nobody. No one worth your time.” Drake flourished his hand, very similarly to the way Andrew dismissed Steven at the entrance. The realization burned something bright inside of Andrew. 

“A man is _dead_.” Andrew let more emotion than he intended seep into his voice. It rose with his words and they tasted like ash on his tongue.

Drake pulled his chin back a bit and rose his groomed brows for a mere moment, before his head dipped and a snakes smile danced on his lips, “AJ, you need to calm down.”

He was closer now. Andrew could smell his cologne. Steven’s stuck in his nose - Drakes choked him, closed his throat. He swallowed hard, breathed in short bursts - he looked like he was panicking.

 _He was_.

Drake tilted his head, smile turning to a frown; eyes relishing in the betrayal spelled across Andrew’s face, melting into fake apology.

“I apologize I left you out.” His voice softened and Andrew felt like he was going to vomit. He was only a few paces away.

“That’s not it...” Andrew said through clenched teeth. His eyes stung and he didn’t know why. “You _promised._ ” Andrew felt his muscles tense when Drake took another step closer. He continued, “You _promised_ you wouldn’t kill anyone.”

Drake looked at Andrew as if he were broken. This... heartbreak crossed over his face that anyone would, could fall for. Andrew, in his head, knew better. But his mind was also screaming **_Sweeties_ ** and he still had yet to say something about it.

“This was an exception... He was just,” Drake sighed and looked off to the side, motioning to nothing, “A rat. Not a member of the Syndicate. That’s why I had them do it. He could have _hurt_ you AJ.”

He was right in front of him. Drake towered over him. He looked down and Andrew was forced to look up. Andrew knew how silly it would sound to anyone looking upon them now, but he said it anyway.

“No one can hurt me.” In many ways, that was the truth. In others, it was not.

Drake frowned once more and rose his hand to Andrew’s cheek. Andrew knew if he moved away, it would be worse - so he stood still and narrowed his eyes as Drake’s thumb brushed over the bandage. His other hand took _gentle_ hold of Andrew’s arm and his fingers stroked over the scars crosshatching his skin.

“Mm...” Drake hummed. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!!! Like my other fic, [BloodSport](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16270439/chapters/38046554), here is a glossary for further explanations!  
> Glossary*:  
> \- LES - Lower East Side  
>  \- Shang-Lung Lee (Lee Shang-Lung) - Banana Fish Character. I didn't want to just make someone up. I ended up weaving his story with Renees, in order to fufil the storyline of Banana Fish. (which, if you guys would like to see a future post about who is what character, let me know!!! I have most aftg characters paired with banana fish ones!)  
> \- F - Subway line  
> \- M1 - Subway line  
> \- Steven - My Beta and I jumped back and forth on this. but apparently Steven was the name of one of Andrews foster fathers. If it's not, that is the 'canon' implication - now put in this world.  
> \- Shine bright like a diamond - when in the met, be rihanna. i am sorry  
> \- Maniac - term lightly used. but also it's riko so...  
> \- Poseidon - raped medusa. ( [Story of Medusa I am referencing.](http://teashoesandhair.tumblr.com/post/139877723663/woah-i-didnt-know-medusa-was-raped-can-you) )  
> I am a New Yorker, but I do not live in the city, so if I get anything wrong, please call my ass out!!!  
> If you have any questions or concerns, please leave a comment or you can talk to me on my [Tumblr](http://bloodydamnit.tumblr.com/) or [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/bloodydamnit/)! I am always on and free. (come fangirl with me about aftg and banana fish please omfg) 
> 
> [My painting of Andreil for this fic!](http://bloodydamnit.tumblr.com/post/180762789642/my-knuckles-have-turned-too-white-theres-no)
> 
> I will try and get on a steady schedule with fics. I will keep yall updated on my tumblr or insta when a chapter will be up. But I am going to try and update every week like with BS. 
> 
> Also. Okay. I did this with Bloodsport, I am with this. I have an 'anthem' song for this fic and for Banana Fish in general. Be warned, it is a 'screamo' song, but by god if this isnt something Andrew wouldn fuckin listen to. ['It's Dangerous Business Walking Out Your Front Door - Underoath'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bzUYbuLBBIc) I literally fucking cant. "My knuckles have turned too white, there's no turning back tonight, kiss me one last time" (shout out to 2007 emo tiara. ugh im sorry again)
> 
> Also, NO WORRIES PEOPLE. NEIL IS COMIN SOON. I PROMISE. 
> 
> ANYWAY. Enough Tiara. Stop talking. Thank you, thank you, thank you again to [fuckyeahdisreputablekibeth](https://fuckyeahdisreputablekibeth.tumblr.com/) for being my positively amazing beta and support. I literally cannot say it enough. 
> 
> And thank you all again for reading!!! Kudos and Comments are always appreciated!!! Let me know what y'all think!!!!


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